


Malfoy Came To Stay

by AmoretteHD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/AmoretteHD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry lets Draco stay over until he can get his life together again. Then, Draco tries to leave, and Harry doesn't let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malfoy Came To Stay

Harry saw Draco Malfoy sitting at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, staring sullenly into a glass of Firewhiskey. He noticed him first from his hair, and then from the muscles in his back and shoulders. There was no mistaking that it was Malfoy, and Harry would know.

He didn’t think he should have approached him, but he did.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he asked him. “Shouldn’t you be hiding like the rest of the Death Eaters?”

Malfoy looked up at him with red eyes, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt about being a jerk off. Malfoy was crying.

Malfoy told him to sod off, and Harry knew he should. But he didn’t.

He sat next to Malfoy and asked him what was wrong. Malfoy wouldn’t speak to him, looking resolutely ahead with a frown and raised chin. Harry pressed on, asking him where his parents were, where his friends were, where he was staying, what he was doing for the summer. Malfoy finally told him it was none of his business, and that he should go back to his great, fantastic, perfect life.

“You’ve won, you’ve taken all my pride,” he choked, “What else do you want?”

How unnecessarily dramatic.

Harry told him he wasn’t interested in taking his pride, but he was interested in talking to him. He ordered himself a beer and sat next to Malfoy, stubbornly. Malfoy sighed and said he supposed he had no choice but to suffer through a conversation, and Harry smiled and said that was correct. He had no choice.

At first only hesitantly answering Harry’s questions, Malfoy opened up considerably after about two hours and three Firewhiskeys. He told Harry everything. His parents had fled to France, his friends had no interest in him now that his family was no longer rich or influential. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about looking for a job, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to - his cheeks flushed even talking about it. He said he’d gotten pissed off one night at the state of his life and tried to spell off his Dark Mark, but it wouldn’t come off, and he’d only managed to give himself some very purple bruises on his forearm.

Harry laughed, although he probably shouldn’t have because it wasn’t supposed to be funny. But Malfoy smiled a bit, too, and Harry could almost see the clouds lift from Malfoy’s face. Also, Harry felt his chest swell, happy to have helped even a little bit. If he had learned anything, it was that everyone is victimized in war. Even Malfoy had been. He didn’t like to see him broken, because whenever he thought of Malfoy he was always smirking or riding a broom at neck-breaking speeds, reckless and spirited and happy.

He had a sudden interest in where Malfoy was staying, and this question caused Malfoy to shut down a bit again. But Harry told him to stop being a sulky little twat and just tell him. Malfoy said it was his first night alone, and he didn’t know where he was going to stay. He had been kicked out of the Manor by the Ministry last night, and he’d been wandering about ever since. So Harry asked him why he was spending all his money on alcohol when he should be trying to save it for a room here at the Leaky. Malfoy heaved a heavy sigh and shrugged. Harry thought, he clearly has no idea how to fend for himself. Spoilt brat.

“You’re staying with me,” Harry told him firmly. And despite an entire hour of protests, Harry managed to get his way and drag Malfoy back to his flat.

It was more than a flat, really. It was the best that money could buy in Muggle London. It was the penthouse in a posh, modern high rise, with clean lines and the latest amenities. There was even a gym, a spa, and a pool in the building. Malfoy looked around with furrowed brows, and Harry imagined that despite all the money he’d spent buying this place outright, it probably looked sterile and unimaginative compared to the opulent and historical Malfoy Manor.

But Malfoy did not complain. Truth be told, Harry figured he was just mildly drunk. Malfoy said not one single word upon entering the flat. They just sat together on the couch, and Harry turned on the telly (flat screen HD plasma, wall-hanging, and _huge_ ), and they watched Muggle football in silence. When the sun went down, and the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching one whole wall of the open-concept flat were sparkling with city lights and night noises, Harry showed Malfoy to the guest bedroom. Malfoy just stared at that as well, so Harry shrugged and left him alone, yawning and collapsing onto his own bed.

The next morning, Harry was woken up by Malfoy shoving him and prodding him with both his hands.

“Potter!” he said. “Potter, wake up!” He was sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed.

“What do you want?” Harry asked. “Bugger off back to sleep.”

“No,” Malfoy said, “I wanted to say goodbye before I left.”

Harry shot straight up and almost knocked their heads together, but Malfoy moved just in time. “What do you mean left?” he asked. “You’re leaving? Why? You’re not leaving.”

Malfoy only gave him a withering look and said of course he must leave. Harry refused to let him go, and told him he could stay as long as he needed to get his footing back.

“Don’t be stupid,” he told Malfoy. “You’re a dumb fuck, you won’t last a minute on your own. You can’t sleep on park benches, you’ll be raped. If you go back to the Wizarding world, you’ll be miserable because you’re a stupid Death Eater prat, and if you stay in the Muggle world you’ll be miserable because you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Malfoy suggested that, if he was finished thoroughly insulting him, Harry should get his arse up and make him breakfast and help him find a job. Harry grinned widely and jumped out of bed.

Later, they walked around Muggle London together, Malfoy wearing some of Harry’s clothes so that he wouldn’t look like “a weirdo from a renaissance fair”, as Harry put it.

Harry loved to look at the expressions on Malfoy’s face throughout the day. There was fascination upon using the metro, trepidation and uncertainty when asking for an employment application at a nearby bank, disgust when forced to try Muggle foods that Harry bought him.

They picked up a few more applications – all from banks, at Malfoy’s insistence that it was the only Muggle institution that made sense to him – and they went back to the flat. Harry made a mental note that he should get Malfoy a spare key, if he was to start working and coming-and-going on his own.

Harry ordered them takeout for dinner, which Malfoy pretended to dislike. But Harry could tell that he didn’t dislike it too much, because he ate a lot more than Harry did. But Harry just smiled and felt happy listening to Malfoy’s reactions and complaints. He wasn’t so bad, just a little whiny at most.

Malfoy told him that he would get his own place once he saved up some money, and Harry nodded and said of course he would. He wasn’t about to let him crash here forever.

One of the banks called Malfoy back (or rather, called Harry), and Malfoy got a job as a teller. It was extremely funny to teach Malfoy how to use a phone. Harry was practically crying at Malfoy’s shocked expression and his cursing. Oh, the cursing. There were curse words Harry had never heard before, all because Malfoy didn’t know which button to press to “hang up”.

“It’s the button with the red symbol,” Harry told him, but Malfoy just didn’t get it.

The night before his first day of work, Malfoy was unable to sit down.

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry asked, but he knew even before he opened his mouth that Malfoy wasn’t going to be nice.

Malfoy went on a tirade of insults about Harry’s flat, Harry’s clothes, Muggles, telephones…. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were watery, and he looked positively panicked. Harry got angry right back, and they yelled at each other for half an hour, until Harry told him he should never have invited him to live here and Malfoy said he should never have come. Malfoy went into his room and slammed the door shut.

Harry was about to sit back down and forget it when he heard the lock click.

Something about that click set his nerves right on fire, and he stomped to the guest bedroom and pounded on the door. Malfoy yelled at him to fuck off, but Harry spelled the door open and went in. Malfoy told him he hated him.

“What, I get no privacy just because this is your place, Potter? I’d rather not live here at all.”

Harry sat next to him on the bed and looked at him. Malfoy was looking away. Harry grabbed his chin forcefully with one hand and pulled his face toward him, and Malfoy surprisingly let him. Harry asked him why he was in such a bad mood suddenly, and Malfoy shook his head out of his grip.

“I’ll never be able to do it,” he said quietly. “I can’t even use a phone.”

Harry stared and couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. Malfoy was just scared. And he was lashing out, in his usual fashion. Harry found himself laughing, and Malfoy glared at him, cheeks flushed pink. Harry clapped him on the back and told him he would do fine, and then he left Malfoy alone.

Malfoy did do fine. In fact, he did more than fine, because he’d snuck his wand to work with him. Harry met him for lunch on his break, and he listened with a huge grin as Malfoy related to him every detail of his day. His animated face and gestures were thrilling to watch, his blond hair bouncing and his silver eyes shining. Harry sat opposite him and he forgot all about his sandwich, until Malfoy said his break was over and he should be getting back. In fact, neither of them actually ate. Malfoy was too excited talking, and Harry was too excited listening.

Harry didn’t want to go back to the flat alone, so he spent the rest of the day shopping while he waited for Malfoy to get out of work. He strolled along the shops, contemplating each store. At the end of four hours, he had bought Malfoy a mobile, because he didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t reach him regularly throughout the day. Not that he had something particular to say to him at all times, but just knowing that he could made him breathe easy. It was a fancy mobile, and he anticipated showing Malfoy how to use it. Which would undoubtedly be very entertaining.

He also bought Malfoy some clothes from a very posh store where the saleswoman helped him. He had to describe Malfoy’s size to her.

“A bit thinner than me,” he said, “but only by a hair. And he likes to show off.”

She smiled and showed him items that he could picture on Malfoy before they even left the hanger. They simply screamed Malfoy - well-tailored trousers, dark denims, and the button-down shirts and trendy tees.

He met Malfoy after work with all the shopping bags, and Malfoy’s eyeballs practically bulged out of his head. He was so excited to look through them that he couldn’t even wait to get home. They sat in a café and Harry bought them iced teas and Malfoy ripped open boxes and bags.

Then, his face fell and he told Harry he could never pay him back, and he wasn’t going to accept something for free from him, like some pathetic moocher with no self-respect. Harry said that he could pay him back in installments, or later, or whatever. Anything to see the smile return to Malfoy’s face. Which it did, shyly and adorably in Harry’s opinion.

Weeks went by. Malfoy settled into his job at the bank, and Harry continued to train as an Auror. Once, Harry had invited his friends over, which was an extremely awkward and terrible night, and he didn’t really like to recall how he’d politely (or not so much) asked them all to leave after they’d made Malfoy storm out in a rage. Ron had told him he never thought Harry would choose bloody, ferrety Malfoy over his real friends. Harry had told him that he wasn’t choosing, he was just helping. But that night didn’t really end well for anyone.

Harry found that he liked having Malfoy to come home to after training. He also found that he disliked training more and more as time went on. Malfoy listened when he complained, and helped him with (un)useful suggestions about getting back at people that bugged him.

“I’m not going to glue anyone’s bollocks together just because they annoy me, Malfoy. I’ve never done that to you, after all.”

But Malfoy only laughed and smacked him on the arm.

Harry had to train on Saturday, and he was pissed about it. He had a terrible day, where the head Auror yelled at him for everything. He missed his targets in shooting practice, he decapitated the wrong faux-Death Eater dummy, and he couldn’t for the life of him block Lightening Jinxes and ended up being electrified seven times.

He was so happy to be done with his day that he could barely wait to see Malfoy and listen to all his rants and raves. When he had started considering Malfoy’s rants funny, he didn’t know.

When he came home that evening, he smelled dinner cooking. Not burning, surprisingly, but cooking. He found Malfoy experimenting in the kitchen, covered in both flour and red sauce. Malfoy sat him down at the table and put a plate of lasagna in front of him. Harry cut a piece with his fork and tentatively took a bite. It was good.

Very good.

He took bite after bite, complimenting Malfoy between mouthfuls.

“This is so good, Malfoy. Oh, my God! So freakin’ good.”

“Really?” Malfoy asked, smirking to himself.

Harry raved and raved, and ate the whole thing in under a minute. He asked for seconds and watched Malfoy’s eyes widen.

“No, Potter,” he said. “I made dessert, “save some room.”

This time, Harry felt his own eyes widen in shock. Malfoy had made dessert.

“Malfoy,” he said after a bite of chocolate truffle cake. “I have never eaten anything this good.”

He noticed Malfoy watching him as he spooned chocolate into his mouth over and over, so he licked the spoon a bit too obviously, and savored the cake a bit too long, and maybe even closed his eyes and let his tongue slip over his top lip although there may or may not have been chocolate there. He probably shouldn’t have done those things. But he did. And he felt a sharp thrill in his stomach when Malfoy’s breath came out noticeably heavier.

That entire next week, Harry rushed home to Malfoy. He couldn’t wait to see what Malfoy had made for dinner every night. Monday it was steak, cooked to perfection. Tuesday it was potatoes and sausage. Wednesday, Malfoy had made him a traditional English breakfast for dinner, smirking and saying he was playing around with recipes he found in an old cookbook Hermione had left in Harry’s kitchen.

“Have you ever cooked before?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, which Harry followed with his eyes. Father would kill him, he said, if he found him cooking. He looked down at the table for a long moment while Harry drank in the slope of his cheekbones down to the point of his chin and the curve of his lips.

When Malfoy glanced back up, he puffed his chest out and said smugly, “Bit like Potions, actually.”

Harry balled up a napkin and threw it at him.

From then on, Harry vowed to give Draco the culinary tour of his life. He never imagined Malfoy would be so into food! He brought him to one restaurant after another, all over London. They tried Italian, and Harry told Malfoy his lasagna was much better than theirs. And he meant it. They tried Japanese, and Malfoy really loved sushi, but Harry didn’t end up eating much that night. Harry liked the Spanish tapas they went to on Saturday because it was fun to choose from all the little appetizers.

“You like when you can try a little bit of everything, don’t you?” Malfoy noticed. Harry shrugged. He supposed he did.

They laughed, and they drank, and Harry felt warm and fuzzy and blurry. Often during their outings, he wanted to sit next to Malfoy instead of across from him so that they could be even closer. But he never did.

Also, Malfoy tried to pay but Harry never let him. But at a particularly expensive French restaurant, Harry could tell he that Malfoy was starting to become upset over this. He told Harry, in a quiet warning tone, that he was not a “bloody girl”. Harry let him pay for the dessert course.

One time the waitress asked Harry if he and his boyfriend would like another bottle of wine.

Harry stared at her for a long time, until she got visibly uncomfortable and Malfoy kicked him under the table. Malfoy told the waitress they weren’t together, but the bottle of wine sounded grand. Harry had another three glasses. After dinner, he stumbled against Malfoy, who steadied him with a strong arm around his waist, and helped him walk to the Apparition point.

 

\- - -

As the days passed, Draco reflected that life was better than he had expected it would be. His job at the bank was simple, and it paid well enough. And his manager was a young, desperate girl who flirted with him shamelessly, and he rather enjoyed the attention. But when she stared markedly at the Dark Mark one morning and told him she found tattoos sexy, he glared at her never tolerated her flirting again. Stupid Muggle woman. Didn’t know what she was talking about.

He kept trying to pay Potter rent, but Potter never let him. And that really irked Draco because he didn’t like feeling like Potter had something over him. Well, besides his owing Potter his _life,_ but he didn’t like to think about that very much.

And curiously, Potter never helped him look for a flat like he said he would. Whenever Draco brought it up, Potter always made some excuse about being tired or having to visit the Weasel. Once he even threw a fit and went on about things that had nothing to do with flat hunting at all. He yelled about how Auror training was hard enough on him without his having to worry about Draco’s problems too. What did Auror training have anything to do with flat hunting?

Draco had no more patience left. He said he’d go alone, and Harry said _fine_ very loudly and stormed away.

Of course, Draco never did go alone like he’d threatened, because, although he would never admit it aloud, he was still apprehensive about navigating Muggle London without Potter. He hated it, and he mentally kicked himself in the balls, but the thought of going out on his own overwhelmed him. He’d memorized the train stop that got him to work, and he rarely strayed off that route.

Some nights when he laid in Potter’s guest room, he thought his head would literally split in half and all his frustration and anger would explode out like one of those Muggle bombs. The atomic bombs, with the really big smoke. He just didn’t think he could take it sometimes.

One night, to his utter mortification, Potter had heard him crying, and he came into Draco’s bed with him. Draco let him slide in under the blanket, and he poured out his soul to him. Potter’s green eyes were sexy. So bright and expressive. He listened to Draco’s story from beginning to end with his thick, dark brows furrowed.

“I’m worthless,” he told him, and Potter shook his head.

“I’m useless,” he told him, and Potter shook his head again.

“I’m a terrible, weak person,” he said.

Potter grabbed his hand and squeezed, telling him he wasn’t, he’d been young, they’d all been young then.

“Exactly,” Draco said. “Everyone else was just as young as I was, and not everyone did what I did.”

“But not _everyone_ had your family, Malfoy, or grew up the way you did. “

“Stop making excuses for me, Potter,” he whispered.

The conversation went like that, with Draco hating himself and with Potter trying to be supportive. He had no idea why Potter was being so nice. He really needn’t be. If anything, he should have punished Draco and left him to cry alone, like the pathetic, weak mess that he was. He couldn’t even remember having fallen asleep, but he woke up in the morning to the sunlight that flooded his room. Potter was sleeping next to him.

They had more and more sleepovers after that first one. With markedly less crying, on Draco’s part. And not in Draco’s bed, but on the sofa.

He was so ashamed to have cried in front of Harry that he was mean to him for three whole days. But then one night, Harry brought home pizza and beer, and they watched tons of _movies_ on the huge black _telly_ thing.

Draco hated a particular gangster movie called Goodfellas. He reckoned he would have loved gangster movies when he was younger, but something about them struck all too close to home now. So they watched movies about vampires, and they made fun of the stupid Muggles together for coming up with this crap about magical creatures. They didn’t know a thing, did they?

Draco loved making Harry laugh, and he realized that he made him laugh a lot. He had always known he was funny. Everyone in his dorm used to say so. But to see Potter’s face break into a grin while he threw his head back and let himself roll around the sofa in howls... well, that was just hot.

Sometimes in the middle of the third movie, Draco would put his head on Potter’s shoulder “by accident” and pretend he’d fallen asleep. Potter would never move him.

He kept cooking and Potter kept eating - he couldn’t get enough. He made requests which Draco eagerly filled, although he pretended to be annoyed. And they still went out to dinner, and Potter still paid.

“You pay for all those groceries whenever you cook,” Potter would say. “I’m paying for this now that we’re out.”

But Draco never gave up arguing, and he suspected Potter liked that. Because they didn’t know how to communicate very well if they weren’t arguing, teasing, or debating. It became their own language, in a way. And Draco never, ever grew tired of it.

One night, Potter was running around the flat like a deranged troll, muttering and cursing to himself under his breath. When Draco asked him what was wrong, Potter simply said, “Nothing,” and went back to staring at himself in the mirror and flattening his hair with his hand.

“Are you going somewhere?” Draco asked as he leaned on the doorframe to the bathroom, watching Potter go slowly mad.

Potter said yes, he was going somewhere. He was meeting his old Quidditch captain.

“What are you going to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Potter said, but he failed to sound as casual as Draco assumed he meant to. “Just grabbing something to eat somewhere. Then probably getting a pint.”

Draco smirked. “Dinner and drinks?”

Potter glared at him and shut the door, ignoring Draco’s shout of pain when the door hit him in the face. This must be serious, Draco thought.

He went into his room, dug out his tightest denims, and went back to the bathroom to bang on the door. “Potter!” He yelled. “Stop being a twat and come out here. I’ve got something for you.”

The door slowly opened. Draco threw the jeans at him and told him to shut up before Potter even opened his mouth, because surely he’d argue and Draco didn’t have the patience at the moment.

When Potter emerged from the bathroom with the denims on, Draco could not hold back his smirk. Potter looked good. Damn good. They buttoned and zipped, but he could tell that they were just a bit too snug, especially around Potter’s lovely Chosen Arse.

“Are you sure these look good, Malfoy?” Potter was arching his back, trying to look at himself from behind, and Draco couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“Yes, Potter,” he said. “Your date won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

Potter turned bright red, and he called Draco bad names. Which was really annoying because Draco was only trying to help, and Potter was an unappreciative, arrogant bastard. And Draco told him so.

He was awoken at three in the morning by Potter’s return, after the insufferable idiot slammed the door and proceeded to stomp to his room shouting _fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Draco didn’t even bother to put on pajama bottoms over his fitted boxers before going to Potters room to tell him to shut the fuck up. But when he went in, he could only stare, because Potter was lying on his bed, legs in the air, trying messily to remove the denims.

“What the bloody fuck?” Draco asked.

Potter sat up. Upon seeing Draco, he pointed at him and said, “This is all your fault, Malfoy, you prat!”

Draco’s jaw dropped. What the hell had he done, now?

“You and your stupid denims!” Potter yelled, and he got up and ran into the living room.

Draco followed him.

“What are you talking about?” Draco stood in front of the sofa, where Potter presently sat and looked like he was about to cry. “Did something happen?”

Potter wouldn’t answer him, he just sat there looking away and breathing heavily. He was trying to control his tears. Draco knew, because he did the same, very often.

Draco pressed on. “Tell me what happened.” And when Potter said nothing, Draco said, “Now.”

Potter’s voice cracked when he spoke. “He… he…”

Draco moved closer, until his bare legs bumped against Potter’s bare knees. “He did what?”

Potter’s face kept scrunching up and relaxing, and scrunching up and relaxing, like he was about to cry but then not.

“Did he … touch you?”

“He kissed me,” Potter exhaled. And then he burst into tears, sobs, heaving shoulders and quivering bottom lip.

Draco immediately climbed onto him. Straddling his lap, he let his weight sink down on Potter, holding him down. He wrapped his arms around Potter’s shoulders and he felt Potter squeeze him around his waist. He let Potter sob into his neck, and he just squeezed as hard as he could. Eventually, he spoke to Potter. He told Potter it was not such a big deal, to be kissed. Kissing was good. Kissing was fun. Even if that kiss was from a bloke. Not a big deal at all. There were worse things, he told him.

But Potter didn’t seem to see Draco’s very logical logic and reasonable reasoning. So Draco told him to cry, and Potter continued to do just that. His fingers were tangled in Potter’s hair.

“Why this?” Potter kept yelling in a voice that was also part sob. “Why this, too?”

Draco tried to talk him into silence, but he couldn’t. So he simply sat there and squeezed Potter with every muscle in his body, from his arms to his legs. He knew Potter liked it, because he squeezed right back, and when Draco tried to give him some distance and room to breathe, Potter clung to him and pulled him down again.

Suddenly, Potter grabbed a firm hold on Draco’s thighs, and he rose to his feet, hauling Draco with him. Draco felt his dick fill instantly from this display of Potter’s strength. Potter was able to hold him up as he walked them to his bedroom. Draco found himself thrown onto Potter’s bed, while Potter climbed on top of him. He held Draco’s face in his palm. He stared into his eyes, and then glanced down at his lips.

“What did you do,” Draco asked, “when he kissed you?”

“I punched him.”

Neither of them laughed.

Potter wrapped himself in Draco’s arms and fell asleep. Draco became angry because he wanted to kiss Potter but he knew he couldn’t at this moment, what with Potter’s vulnerable state. But for once, he didn’t lash out. He stayed still and swallowed his own desires and slept.

 

\- - -

Waking up to find Malfoy’s arms around him was a surprise, until Harry’s hazy mind remembered last night. He had come home very buzzed. And what he remembered most clearly was the feeling of comfort that came with Malfoy’s presence. The blissful fresh air of relief.

He felt the same now, wrapped around Malfoy like the boy’s own personal blanket. Harry blanket.

Malfoy’s face was softer in sleep, but Harry didn’t like it. He poked Malfoy until he woke up, cursing. Harry smiled as the pointedness returned to Malfoy’s face. He looked more like Malfoy this way. His Malfoy, the one he’d known for many years of his life. It struck Harry suddenly just how much he _knew_ this person, inside and out.

But he wasn’t his Malfoy, was he?

“I want you to live here,” Harry blurted out.

Malfoy smirked. “I do live here, Potter.”

“No, you want to leave. You’re always trying to leave.”

Malfoy told him he was being stupid, and Harry pinned him to the bed and said he wasn’t. They wrestled until they ended up on the floor. Malfoy ended up on top of him. “Why should I stay?” he asked.

“Because,” Harry said. “Why shouldn’t you stay? There really is no reason to go.”

Malfoy sighed. In an attempt to get up, he rolled his hips, and Harry’s cock filled. He could tell Malfoy had felt it because he stopped moving and stared at Harry. Harry let his palms slide slowly up Malfoy’s bare thighs, from the knee to the soft mound of his arse.

Malfoy became hard instantly, as well. When he rolled his hips again, Harry’s head fell back against the wood floor. He arched up, and Malfoy rolled down, and their dicks pressed together through their thin boxer shorts. Harry pulled Malfoy’s arse against him harder, and he lifted his hips higher, taking control and rutting helplessly against Malfoy’s perfect body, which felt so utterly perfect under his hands. Malfoy was liquid, moving however Harry moved him, going wherever Harry told him to go. Malfoy’s palms were splayed on the floor on either side of Harry’s head, and Harry’s hands were on Malfoy’s arse, tracing up and down his thighs.

Then Malfoy stopped. Confused, Harry said, “Fuck is wrong with you?”

“I thought you didn’t want this.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Which was probably bad because Malfoy got off him. No, first he called him an “indecisive prick”, and then he got off him.

Harry spent the day at Hermione’s flat. Her boyfriend, Terry Boot, came round at dinner time, and they chatted about the “old days” when they were all at Hogwarts. He watched Hermione and Boot touch and kiss randomly throughout the evening. He knew that he wanted to touch and kiss Malfoy like that.

It was just a matter of letting himself.

 

\- - -

“I have a dilemma,” Potter said.

Draco was angry at him all day, so he didn’t even turn to look at him. Not even when he heard Potter come closer.

“Would you please help me, Draco?” Potter asked.

Then Draco turned and told him that nothing could help him, not even the Psycho Ward at St. Mungo’s.

Potter ignored him. “You see,” he continued, stepping even closer, “I think I was so upset last night because Wood kissed me wrong.”

“Kissed you wrong?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be kissed wrong?”

Potter looked nervous, but he said, “Well. It was something like this...” Potter closed the space between them, and he quickly pecked Draco on the lips.

“Oh,” Draco said. “Yes. That is not very good.”

“No,” Potter shook his head. “That’s where I need your help, you see?” He licked his lips and Draco stared at his tongue. “Can you show me a real kiss?”

Draco nodded. Potter leaned in until their lips almost touched. Draco stared at Potter’s lips, closed his eyes, and then felt the soft press of them against his own. It was so right.

He grabbed Potter by the waist and pulled him in, loving the feeling of Potter’s warm body against his own. Draco opened his mouth, and Potter opened his mouth, and their tongues touched. Soft, wet, and erotic as hell.

Draco kissed him hungrily, and they touched each other everywhere.

 

\- - -

Life went on much the same. Harry ordered the food, and Draco ordered the wine. Harry paid, and Draco argued. Harry hated the Aurors, but he never quit because it was not always bad. Draco continued to work at the Muggle bank, although he made plans to become a barrister in the Wizarding world one day. Harry listened to his plans eagerly, and helped him elaborate on them and vowed to make them come to life.

When the waiter asked him if he’d like to see the dessert menu, Harry said it was up to his boyfriend.

**Author's Note:**

> Contact me on tumblr: [@heyitsamorette](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com/)


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